This is a Weakness
by peroxidepest17
Summary: Castiel has important things to do.


**Title:** This is a Weakness  
**Universe:** Supernatural  
**Theme/Topic:** The original request was: "_I'd like a little something with Cas bringing Dean pie on his birthday."_  
**Rating:** PG  
**Character/Pairing/s:** lightly DeanxCas preslash vibes? (Sam and Balthazar kind of slide in and out of this as well)  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** Through 6x15 just to be safe?  
**Word Count:** 3,160  
**Summary:** Castiel has important things to do.  
**Dedication:** this was originally done for diane_mckay's request for the Everlasting Birthday challenge, but someone better equipped beat me to the punch (and wrote something totally cute). Clearly this fandom is awesome. 3  
**A/N:** So the original prompt is totally adorable right? I'm not sure why the fic I ended up writing is so gross. I might be taking the fact that my feet hurt out on the world or something. Tomorrow I should work on that fic I owe from uh, last year.  
**Disclaimer:** No harm or infringement intended. All is just for fun.

* * *

The sky is burning around him. He can feel the crackle of electric flames as celestial swords clash; he can hear the shrieks of wounded angels and see the too-bright flashes of their dying graces erupt outward, slamming the particles in the air and forcing atom after atom into heated collisions against one another. The explosions eat everything up until there is nothing left but trails of destruction as bright as the sun. Castiel remembers that the humans call this a nuclear reaction. He knows he shouldn't be remembering human things in the middle of heaven's war.

He wonders why he ends up doing it anyway.

He ducks the edge of another angel's blade as it cuts perilously close to his left wing. His reaction, honed from the many battles against Raphael's forces he has been involved in since this blasted war began, is to grab his attacker's sword and use his own force spin him around abruptly, so that Castiel can plunge the tip of his own weapon deep into the grace of his brother. Another explosion of white-light echoes through the universe as the angel dies, inches from Castiel's own eyes.

Castiel mourns the loss immediately, without meaning to. He remembers that this feeling is what the humans call guilt.

He must focus, he tells himself, he must not lose sight of the goal or it will get him killed. He grits his teeth and pushes on. This battle must be won.

Even still, all he can think is that there is not enough time, not enough minutes in the day with all the things he has to do, even though time is an entity designed for mortals and should not matter to someone like him.

But somehow, time suddenly feels like it matters. There are so many human things getting in the way of his celestial war these days.

Frustrated and angry, Castiel mindlessly kills a ten of his brothers in the very next moment, as they purposefully fall upon him all at once. He knows he is getting good at that; better than he ever wanted to be. Every day he is getting stronger as he spills the blood of his brethren.

When this war first began, those that sided with Raphael had not known that when Castiel returned from oblivion, he'd become stronger than he'd been before. They did not know then, that he had grown to be much more than the foot soldier he was always meant to be. In that very first showdown, when Raphael had returned to heaven to claim his throne in Michael's absence, he found Castiel there first, and approached his brother, intent on destroying Castiel exactly as he had the first time they'd clashed. If Castiel had been the same angel from that time, he would have come apart then, from nothing more than the will of the archangel's thoughts. He would have been set afire, just like the atoms in the air that his brothers and sisters are thoughtlessly bombarding with the brilliant fury of their dying graces.

He is not the same now as he had been in years earlier however, and Raphael had faltered for a moment then, when Castiel's grace failed to unravel by his command, and instead, had held and pushed back defiantly against his own. With darkening eyes and the roar of thunder in his wings, the archangel had declared Castiel a heretic, a rebel to God's will who had usurped the power of Satan. Castiel had countered that he was simply blessed by the power of God, brought back from oblivion in order to return their Father's justice to a lawless and corrupt heaven.

War had erupted at that very moment, as Raphael ordered those who would obey him to rip Castiel apart. Dozens of his brothers and sisters had attacked him at Raphael's command, throwing themselves thoughtlessly at him one after another because an archangel commanded it. Castiel had been forced to kill them all, and from that moment hence, the others had ceased to make attempts on his life without caution or forethought. There, amidst the evaporating graces of his siblings, heaven had finally been forced to acknowledge that Castiel had evolved beyond the simple creature he was when he had gone to retrieve the Righteous Man from the pit.

And so now they are much more coordinated in their attacks, much more purposeful and practiced and cautious. They aim to take him by surprise and always come at him many at once now, sometimes twenty at a time. They know now that he is strong, perhaps not as strong as Raphael, but strong enough to stand against him, as Lucifer had been with Michael millennia ago. To battle him, they plan accordingly.

For this skirmish they have managed to ambush Castiel as he returned from earth some days ago, summoned again by Dean and Sam on a hunt involving an angry oni. His attackers had been ready to strike upon Castiel's immediate reintegration into the celestial pain, and if not for the quick warning from one of his lieutenants, Castiel might have been dead now, pierced on the tip of Jophiel's sword.

Those who follow him have spent the subsequent days fighting and killing and dying in order to get him back to safety, back to the lands in heaven that are filled with his troops, so that he might live to lead them to victory against Raphael's armies. He should have been amongst his armies this whole time, safely ensconced amongst his brothers and planning. He is not there now because he is weak. Because he cannot leave Dean's prayers unanswered, no matter how frivolous they might seem to him.

If he is to win this war, he knows he cannot continue to be weak. It is simply the truth.

If he does emerge victorious from this war one day, he will no longer be clean and bright. He will not be someone fit to rule heaven or to look upon Dean ever again. Dean will not wish to look upon him then anyway. This is also the truth.

But more than all those things, Castiel knows that if he does not win this war at all costs, if he does not assume the rule of heaven, then humanity will be obliterated by Raphael or his followers. Dean and Sam and Bobby and billions of other people will simply be gone.

This, Castiel realizes, is not the first time he has ruined himself for the sake of something greater.

These things, all of them, are simply facts.

Sometimes, he tries to tell himself that those moments of weakness where he allows himself to fly to Dean's side are necessary. They are needed to remind him of what he is fighting for, what he is ruining himself for. If he does not take them now, he will never have them again after, when the war is done and he is unfit for Dean's company. He must take them now.

Those moments will give him strength for later.

This, he knows, is not a fact. It is not the truth.

This is simply one of the lies he tells himself. It is petty and pointless and human.

He does it so that he will not lose all hope.

Castiel often lies to himself like this, especially in battles such as this one, when he is forced to calmly kill his brothers and sisters one after another, while his soldiers desperately fight their way back into the small territory he and those who follow him hold in heaven. He must win this fight.

Even now, amidst all this chaos, Castiel finds that all he can think of is that he must win this fight because time is running out.

He, a being for which there is no such thing as linear time.

He, who has the fate of earth in his hands, and who is willing to destroy the fate of heaven for the sake of that earth.

Humanity's hours are ticking away down below and all he can think is that he must return to earth before another day is through.

When he tells himself that it is important, he thinks it is probably another lie. These human weaknesses will only prolong heaven's war.

He does it anyway.

* * *

By the time they make it to safety, Castiel counts fifteen of his brothers killed by his sword in that one skirmish alone.

Of his followers, the losses are twenty.

It is bitter and disheartening and foolish. He and his men are exhausted.

He helps tend to the wounded before summoning a war council amongst those of his generals that remain alive. He does not have the time or energy to mourn any who are not.

Part of him probably does it anyway.

* * *

"_Hey Cas, so it's Dean's birthday. He doesn't want to do anything but I thought it might be nice to sit down, have some beer, do the present thing tonight. I guess that's the soul talking or something, right? You should stop by. It's kind of pathetic when it's just me and him, you know?"_

Castiel sighs some hours later, when he hears Sam summon him, the younger Winchester's voice making the core of his grace tremble with recognition. It is an echoing, rolling crash of sound that attaches to the wavelength of his existence and throws it out of synch with those of his brothers around him. He attempts to ignore it; reports state that Raphael is recruiting aid from the pagans, and he is promising them territory, safety, and a place in heaven after earth's final destruction. This must be dealt with.

Castiel wonders if his own forces might have to recruit from hell to counteract the growth in Raphael's armies that would result from a successful treaty with the pagans. Balthazar snorts humorlessly and says he knows some pagans himself; pacifists, of course, but if they really do need to swell their ranks, there are a few love and fertility goddesses he is well acquainted with that would not be opposed to helping things along on the population growth front, so long as the angels don't mind lifting the ban on the whole knowing the daughters of man thing.

The fiasco with the Nephilim is still fresh in many of the angels' minds however, and Balthazar's suggestion is vetoed by a majority vote. Castiel cannot help himself when he wonders if those love goddesses might be employed to make Raphael find the earth dear, instead. Balthazar laughs uproariously at him and calls him adorable.

Castiel frowns and is about to ask him if he knows any sun gods or death goddesses instead, who might be of more use to them, but before he can, Dean's voice rings inside his grace like a bell, making it flare up and brighten as the human unwittingly pulls against their bond like a spoiled child, demanding attention.

"_Our Castiel, who art in heaven, asshole be thy name… blah, blah, blah. Are you busy right now? If you are…don't worry about it, I guess. Sam was just hoping… well. I'll see you when I see you."_

Castiel turns to Balthazar abruptly, looking apologetic. Naturally, Balthazar balks. "You can't be serious. Right now? Again? It's barely been five days, Castiel. Human ones!"

"I must leave," Castiel says in response. He is dead serious.

Balthazar sighs. "I hope he at least knows what you're giving up to do this."

"He doesn't," Castiel answers.

He leaves anyway.

* * *

When he arrives in a dim motel room that smells of chocolate and alcohol some hours after that initial prayer, Castiel finds Dean seated at the small table by the door, holding a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand. The remnants of the rest of the bottles from the case are scattered around the room, and clink emptily under Castiel's feet when he alights onto the carpet. Sam is passed out on one of the two beds, still clutching a sealed bottle of Red Tire loosely against his chest. It makes Castiel wonder if he is too late already, if the time he had been biding so carefully had unwittingly passed him by anyway. Human time is sometimes difficult to calculate in the midst of celestial war.

Dean's eyebrows jump when he hears Castiel arrive in his customary gust of displaced air, but he doesn't say anything right away, simply greeting the angel with a forward tilt of his drink.

There is a half-eaten manager's special chocolate cake on the table in front of Dean, and what looks to be a new hunting knife in its sheath beside the cake. There is a bow on the knife, and for a moment, Castiel wonders if he has gotten this all wrong again, because the box he is holding—slightly crumpled from the flight—is neither cake nor anything with a ribbon on it. He still has trouble remembering all the specifics of these very human things, or what the point is, but sometimes, mostly when he is in the presence of Dean and Sam, he feels like he will one day, that he'll eventually understand all of it if only he keeps trying. Maybe that is why he does it at all, even when he shouldn't.

"That for me?" Dean asks eventually, when the silence gets thick enough for him, uncomfortable enough. Castiel, still vaguely perplexed, nods and steps forward; he puts the box on the table beside the cake and the knife before stepping back.

"Yes," he answers, simply.

Dean grins and cracks the top of the box open just a little bit, to sneak a peek inside.

Castiel watches him, and when Dean breaks out into an appreciative grin, Castiel momentarily forgets about the twenty soldiers he'd lost today, of the fifteen brothers he had killed with his own two hands.

Instead, the sight of Dean's joy reminds of what he is doing this for, who he is fighting for, and in that moment, he feels his shoulders relax a little, his lip curl slightly upward. He feels reenergized somehow.

It is probably a lie, but it is a comfortable one.

"That looks awesome," Dean says eventually, and throws the lid backwards completely, so he can get a better look at the pie in all of its fresh-baked glory.

"It is cherry," Castiel informs him. "The window of the shop I acquired it from assured me it was the world's best, but as I passed many other storefronts professing the same thing, I can only surmise that they are all either exactly the same or they are lying."

Dean laughs at that, inexplicably, and shakes his head before he puts his beer down. He starts rooting around on the floor for the box of plastic forks Sam must have purchased to go along with the manager's special cake.

When he finds it, he tips it over into his hand and pulls out two new forks, offering one to Castiel. "Take a load off," he says, and gestures with his eyes to the empty chair beside him. "Let's see if they were lying or not."

Castiel carefully sits down in the offered seat and takes the fork while Dean splits the pie crust at the very center to pull out a heaping mouthful of sticky-sweet cherries. He looks as happy as Castiel has ever seen him as he shovels them into his mouth.

"Mmmph, they might not've been lying after all," he says around that first bite, eyes crinkled in the corners and openly pleased.

Castiel is pleased back, feeling a strange, human kind of warmth at the sight of Dean's contentment. "Happy birthday, Dean," he adds, before he forgets.

"Thanks, Cas. Glad you could make it, man."

Castiel finds he is gratified to know that he is still on time, mostly.

They share the pie from there, Castiel taking a few nibbles whenever Dean motions for him to join in while Dean finishes off the rest with aplomb. Sam snores gently in the background, presumably from too much alcohol, and before long, Dean wrestles the final beer out of his brother's sleeping fingers and cracks it open for Castiel.

"So," Dean begins, after the pie is gone and he has loosened the notches on his belt in satisfaction. "How are things with you lately?"

Castiel ponders this, the satisfied look on Dean's face, the relaxed bent of his posture against the uncomfortable motel chair. "Better now," he answers eventually, as his fingers curl around the beer bottle in his hand. It is not a lie. Not for the moment, at least.

Dean nods. "Glad to hear it."

Castiel sits with him for a few hours longer, speaking when spoken to, but mostly enjoying the quiet peace of the night. It lasts for as long as it can, before Castiel hears the cry of battle call to him again, before he hears Balthazar's resounding, '_Where the hell are you?_' and knows it is time to leave.

He stands, and Dean's eyes follow him carefully as he does. "Time to go already?" He sounds disappointed.

"Yes," Castiel breathes, weary. He finds he also sounds disappointed.

Dean seems to recognize it. He stands alongside the angel and reaches out to tentatively squeeze Castiel's shoulder in a moment of sympathy. Maybe encouragement. "Don't be a stranger," he offers simply, and doesn't say anything else again after that.

"I won't," Castiel agrees. He pauses to look Dean over before he goes, to look Sam over, to remember the smell and the feel of the room, the taste of the cherries and the beer, and the sound of Dean's quiet pleasure against the backdrop of Sam's contented snoring.

All of these, he knows, are human things that will do no good in celestial wars. They are weaknesses.

Castiel silently flies back to heaven and lands directly in the middle of a new battle. He kills several more of his brothers that day. The act makes him dirty, unclean, and unfit to rule. He kills them because he has to. He lies to himself as he does.

And with each life extinguished at the end of his sword, he invariably finds himself thinking back to the dimly lit motel room he had left behind just now, to Dean and Sam and what they each mean to him. There is some comfort there, even if it is his greatest weakness. Even if he knows weakness will not win this war.

There are billions of other people down on earth beyond just Dean and Sam as well, he realizes, people who could just as easily mean as much to someone else as Dean and Sam mean to him.

Castiel kills his brothers—lights the sky on fire with the white-hot sparks of their shrieking deaths—and remembers why he does this, what he is ruining himself for.

That, at least, is not a lie.

**END**


End file.
